


There's More Books in the Teacher's Room

by terryreviews



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 00:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19121059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terryreviews/pseuds/terryreviews
Summary: Smee joined his first pirate crew when he was in his twenties. Back then, Hook wasn't Hook, but don't bother asking what his original last name was. And to think, he only got on said crew because of some books.





	There's More Books in the Teacher's Room

**Author's Note:**

> Admittedly I'm drawing from multiple sources in regards to Smee and Hook as characters, their dynamic, and so forth (ie: Hook, Peter Pan (2003), Disney's Peter Pan). I have no idea how they met, how old they are meant to be and so forth, and so I just...winged it.
> 
> I MAY plan more drabbles for this series, show their progression into friendship and maybe even lovers, but for now, this is just a general story and it may not go further than that. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and any feedback anyone is willing to give me I'd be grateful :)

The pub Smee grew up in had been near the water. Not close enough to smell the salt, but enough so sailors dropped their coin on the counter every night. Mum poured drinks, dad went to sea, and between them both, Smee was alone.

 

His parents were simple, hardworking. He could scrounge up a memory or two of a kind word, a shared meal, but they were fleeting and tainted with melancholy.

 

By the time he set sail on his first ship, barely ten years old, he was self-sufficient. It was a proper navel ship. Regulations, hard work, structure. First, he was a ship's boy, lowest of the low. Over the years, he learned a lot, rose in the ranks, and found a taste of adventure and freedom in spite of the restrictive nature of navy service.

 

In his mid-twenties, on a clear, warm, day, he joined a pirate crew. They approached on the waves, swift as the wind itself. Amidst the smoke and screams, Smee did his best to swipe and slash with his standard issue sword, previously kept under lock and key by the captain until times such as these.

 

For lack of practice, Smee managed to keep himself alive. After, what seemed like hours, he fell to the deck, bloodied and hurt. Not even sure what got him, but highly aware of the pain in his head and side, as his nose touched the wood. Falling into the sticky, reeking puddle of his fellow shipmates' blood.

 

Not a terrible way to go out, Smee thought. Painful, but at least it was doing something exciting. He could've died of exhaustion in some factory, barely making ends meet with a wife and kids relying on him that ultimately would die without his earnings. This was preferable.

 

As he lay on the deck, he became aware of a presence. Some feet away from him, a plank was laid across the gap of the ships and the air grew still. The very sky seemed to gray, and Smee laid in his gore, breath held.

 

Hook (before his hand was gone before his name became Hook) the only pirate Barbeque had ever feared, placed his shining black boots upon the deck. Each footfall thundering on the boards of the previously polished wood, now glistening red, as he passively examined the corpses of Smee's fallen shipmates, muttering every so often to his first mate as his crew began piling bodies and raiding them (and the hold) for loot.

 

His reputation did not do the man justice. Long hair that fell in ringlets down his back, carefully groomed mustache and beard, tall, and imposing blue eyes, who walked with an air of elegant disinterest, and all of which brought Hook into focus. A fancy man with the aura of danger that stood out against the dull crew he commanded.

 

Sharp. A simple word, but then Smee was a simple man and it summed up the whole perfectly. From his position on his belly, he continued to watch as Hook took little interest in the treasures being piled in front of him (man damn near sneered at the gusto in which his crew pawed it) which made Smee curious. He'd never really been curious before and it was an interesting feeling. He liked a bit of gold in his pocket and a woman of the evening to spend it on, a tankard or two of something that pretended to be fine as it burned down his throat, and a bawdy song or two sawed out on a shoddy violin would've put a smile on his face. But he got the feeling it wouldn't have done so for Hook, who, while he would nod or give a tiny twitch of a smile during the proceedings, didn't seem all that engaged.

 

What sort of fearsome pirate wasn't intrigued by treasure? By blood? Who went about it as if it were the business of the day rather than heart pumping excitement? Smee wasn't an expert on pirates, but that's what he figured it would be like.

 

It was only when he saw Hook pick up a book that had been taken from the captain's quarters that a glimmer of interest flickered in the man's eyes. Smee scrunched his nose. He could read a little, his mother's father had been a school teacher once upon a time, and before he died he imparted some of his learning onto his grandson. His mother had tried to do the same, mum could read decently well, but was often too busy to really keep up the practice. And on this current ship, there had been a school of sorts, but he never could really get his head around it. Books didn't put food in his belly after all.

 

However, it was...curious to see this dreadful being, this figure of legend, who was often said to have gone missing after the loss of his hand, here, and flipping through a book like it was the most precious thing offered to him, his gloved hand tenderly moved each page, before placing it into his first mate's hands for safe keeping.

 

While all of this was going on, Smee, though in pain, hardly made a noise. Caught up in his dying thoughts and bewilderment over his observations of Hook, the pain became distant, unimportant, and more and more the drive to speak to this man built. He was going to die anyway, what could be the harm in it?

 

“There's more of them books in the teacher's room if you're interested.”

 

If Smee wasn't already light-headed, he would've been in the clouds as Hook's eyes fell on him.

 

“Who is this?” His voice deep and clear.

 

“No one sir,” replied the pirate nearest Smee. From his position, he couldn't see, but he was fairly certain it was the one who got him. “Stubborn bastard thought he was already dead.”

 

The tip of a sword prodded between his shoulder blades preparing to puncture. Smee didn't flinch, just kept his eyes on the captain.

 

Hook held up his hand, “hold,” he said and made his way to stand in front of Smee.

 

“You,” he bent even so slightly at the waist so as to make eye contact but still maintain his superior posture, looking down his nose, “what is your name?”

 

“Smee.”

 

“Well, Mr. Smee, you're showing quite good form in how you are handling your...defeat.”

 

Something about the way the man said defeat brought a tremor of...pride, perhaps...into Smee's diminishing thoughts despite not really understanding what was meant by _good form_ when it came to laying in a puddle of blood.

 

“Thank you kindly.”

 

Hook regarded him for a moment before asking, “Do you like books Mr. Smee?”

 

“Not really. I can read a bit. Sometimes, for a laugh, I'd read funny pamphlets to the men when we stopped at port and could get some.”

 

It seemed Hook was regarding this, putting his finger to his lips as he thought. Making up his mind, he turned to his first mate and said, “patch him up and bring him aboard.”

 

That was how Smee found himself wrapped in bandages in the belly of the Jolly Roger along with one other member of his former crew that had survived the fight long enough to be taken. The explanation was that at least three of the pirates died during the battle and, if Smee recovered from his wounds, he and his fellow shipmate would begin a new career as replacements for those fallen sailors.

 

Despite the pain of the growing infection, the fever that ebbed and flowed and limited his movement from his hammock to the piss pot left in the corner, and back, it was quite comfortable to let himself be swayed to sleep, to let his over heated brain carry him off to snippets of dreams in between the attempts to heal him from the ship's doctor (taken from another royal navy ship).

 

“Touch and go there Mr.Smee,” said Mr. Clement, the doctor, as he dabbed medicine on the wound, “but it actually was quite shallow. Just a bit dirty. Looking fairly good now. Now, now, I know that it still smarts, and I know your all feverish, but you're still doing well.” Mr. Clement was a tottering, older man with gray at the temples and plump belly. He was patient, kind, and while clearly not in favor of being on a pirate ship, did his best to keep his chin up and show mercy to any and all who came under his needle.

 

“When will I be able to move about proper like?”

 

“Hm,” Mr. Clement moved to stand very close to Smee, his stale breath against his cheeks as he peered into Smee's eyes and felt his head, before taking another look at the wound. “Stitches still raw, still dizzy, might be a few more days. Drink your water, it's good. Clear and cool. Fresh.”

 

“I know, took it from the ship I was on after we'd just gotten it.”

 

“At least you know where it came from,” the doctor nodded his head, placating and packed up his bottles and bits into his bag, handed over a cup to Smee and left to go up on deck.

 

Admittedly, he could have gone for a good, long, swig of rum. It had shaken his nerves up a bit being in the battle, despite the relative peace that followed these past few days that he slept through, and of course, he wanted to dull the pain. However, to his parched mouth, the water was damn near as good and he forced himself not to think beyond the fact that he was spared, that was good enough.

 

That Captain though. That was something he couldn't get out of his head. All the gentleman he was. He hadn't seen him since he was brought on board. What was he doing now? Probably reading.

 

With a smack of his lips, he dropped the empty cup on the floor and put his hands behind his head. Wincing as his body stretched, but thankfully didn't pull the stitches out.

 

Maybe, since he was going to be staying here, he'd take up reading again. Maybe the captain could recommend something to him?

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
